sporklet 11
Adam Strauss


Thigh as if thought

By marble and its halt—

Debauchee of blue


Gave my hands to me and

They cradled you.

Logic forgot its autumn


Kindles just such lapse—

Lapis and its dartles.






Gust I’ll never forget

Till Tuesday, when something

Worse always seems

To follow and I

Follow these tracks, spry

Marble we only

Know as hard after hardly

Touching at all, caress over cold

Shoulder south of coldest.






Wet light shakes and his

Hair distracts me from

Any other horizon, hum

Along ridge starred by rue

Plus names of every chemical this afternoon.


Light billows, refracting

New world border like the years between

Lutes and tape-recorders, the way consciousness

Rearranges furniture, some kind of Osiris

Waits for ferry, and every

Port more closely resembles home.






Tracking gods, and slips, must not be

Daphne, whose bark all bitter

Eats with its tannins, and we

Clarify particulars in archaic light, night with

Moon for careful glossing.

Call him Endymion, warm glow where marble

Patches his inner thigh—

Shivers blankly, out of

Reach but we greenly, gods

Stroked silver, spark screen

Belies intention than desire.






I write my

Way into real, people clarified into gods,

Shepherd nowhere outside Eden, as strictly

Realistic as it takes some god to bare,

Marble painted with

No mind for skin, desire and its

Rusted substrate, strata ambits between

Imitation and original intention

Here at border of before and

Before, ochre sienna freckles.






Stutter stripped to curve

Through which gods get seen,

Glance palisades place, and him

Placental center, slur where gulls

Snap and splatters rose, boy hunched

Under sun and looks over

Edge at vasty sea, due east

Of memory of water

As blue—aster stars his

Eye, wild with seconds

Person, place, and wing.






Bell I swing low by, gods fizzed

On at inscrutable hour, Eden with

Archipelago of holes, sudden

Flare as myth turns to wind, the

Kind with any name I can’t recall

But makes

Me map of my

Body, intervals of vowel and fire.



I try to touch the very core of motion—

To get its vector all over my hands, its vector to

Hold my soul, set it on rail, mere reflection of

More primary conveyance.

I can never go

Far enough.  I can stare at this

Mirror and see finity I embody.

But my capacity to look

Refracts endlessly, telephone

Doomed to always be on, ontology of call and

Response I can’t quite hold.


Sometimes, too true, I can’t look.  No, I

Won’t.  I can refuse

To see

Doom where

Flowers could be.

I do not look

Into my heart, unless you agree

None counts like cores circumference.

Darling, when sound falls short of sense

Please try and find sense in sound. 


Scree skirts this slope I nestle.

Light glances its glows

Like trestles, until eventually

No likeness remains.


I do not dare

Stop, and when I do

Let’s mean enjambment, break

As one harnesses more speed.

Let’s mean sharpest breakages, those most clean,

Those most clouded by

Spores and their portals.  Clouded or pied

And purely I

Like speckles stipple trout.



Marble reflects gods and they bounce

Between glass panes paneling capital, shade where

Dramas play out inverse of dreamt.

Geology has its cause, and art

Causes sun to stripe his thigh: I see

Thew twitch, spores where

Freckles traced arcs, no kind of iris.

Any day blooms come in,  

Remind me concrete requires

Sand from some beach.

I step through cold clarity.


Wreck, rub, grip on his

Thigh, as if marble

Had thought its way to flesh, muscle and its

Administrative retinue, heat just above

Burn, break, sweat and

Gives ways to pages smudged from turning

But we are here to complete sentences:

At exact angles to exiled gods, handsome

Takes on the ruin of permanence.

Invention Of Afternoon

Maybe some marble, some mind for

Veins, gaining this

Hill, working those thews and their

Attendant meditations, otherwise

Known as world, loved as

Mediation, otherwise known

As tone breaks out and outer bearings

Break unto some grove, some

Glove, song you can

Slide over your cortex, so that

Sense both amplifies and loses its

Likelihood to knife

You where no

Identity was meant to go

And guess that gallop, dactylic

Serene with sere leaves foregrounding

The half-lives of heroes from eras

Despoiled by this present empire,

Pure annexation

Of nonsense and its upper

Latitudes, where some certain kinds

Of reason and utmost risk

Grow semaphores wave their temptations.

Adam Strauss lives in Louisville, KY. He is the author of one full-length collection: For Days (BlazeVox). Most recently, poems of his appear in FenceInterimThe Tiny, the Brooklyn Rail, and Dream Pop.